


Canon Drabbles

by QuintessentialQuill



Series: Tempered Grace [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Gen, Guilt, Human Experimentation, Human Trafficking, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Rape/Non-con Elements, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:01:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24190090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuintessentialQuill/pseuds/QuintessentialQuill
Summary: A collection of pieces that I wrote either as an experiment, to establish context or upon request.All of these things happen within the plot of 'Tempered Grace'
Series: Tempered Grace [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1743088
Kudos: 2





	1. Tariq - Aftermath.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was a piece written to fulfil a request made by a dear friend.  
> It features Tariq, following him after the end of the arc 'On their Turf.'

Wet trails followed him. Water dripped from the strands of his hair, from the hem of uniform and each footstep was a drag and it with an uncomfortable squelch, leaving a pool in its wake.  
Faces passed him, a few stopped and stared. He ignored the onlookers and let them have their secret fun at his expense.  
  
But more and more of them began to gather, some even changed course to linger on after him.  
They had taken his silence to be consent. Like it was okay to stalk him and witness a piece of his misery, to stop and stare at the spectacle that Tariq had become.  
Finally, he too paused. He held out his hands like he was a mannequin.  
“Like what you see?”  
  
He bellowed; his voice boomed like Ezekiel’s had on the mic. Which made him want to flinch, but he was not giving this motley crew of an audience any more satisfaction.  
His darkened gaze pinned one of the fascinated watchers. Tariq looked into their eyes and noticed the familiar tint of orange surround the iris.  
 _The fucker’s SmartEye is recording this…_  
His walk of shame, was being filmed.  
The agent quickly and shamefully averted his eyes.  
Tariq walked up to the man, who was taller and had a few pounds on him. They both knew that did not matter.  
Tariq grabbed their pristine, starched white collar and shoved them against the wall. Then held their jaw in a vice-like grip to force eye contact again.  
“What’s wrong? I thought you wanted to see this. Do you want to keep following me and take this outside?”  
The man shook his head in Tariq’s vicious hold.  
Tariq let him go.  
“Good.”  
The agent scrammed, looking over his shoulder as though he had been attacked by a monster.   
“Don’t you all have something better to do?”  
His voice boomed again, and the agents scattered.  
Tariq sighed and stood a little less straight than usual.  
  
His fingers found the intentionally misshapen medal that drooped over his chest pocket, heavily. He plucked off the brooch, without unpinning it. It took some effort to rip the soaked stitches of his uniform shirt. He stared at the scratched ‘Squadron Leader’ title. Someone had gone through the pain of doing that and then stamping on it.  
He threw it against the wall in disgust and clenched his fists. He walked on, now alone in the corridor, towards his room.  
  
Shutting the door once he was inside, left him weak with relief. He slumped against it.  
The carpet was slowly drenched under him, he undid his shoes and rolled off his socks.  
A string of soppy garments was left behind him as he made his way to bar—a shelf with a small assortment of alcoholic beverages.  
He opened a flask of rum with his teeth and spat out the cork… somewhere. It hit something, a door of some cabinet.  
He took a long draught and then another as he hauled himself along to the empty bathtub. Kicking off his briefs, he turned to reach for the faucet, then turned away and then turned back to it… He put one foot in the bathtub and left one out.

An awkward, unplaceable uncertainty clung to him like sweat on a warm day.  
All choices felt overwhelming.  
Did he want to soak in the bathtub or just take a quick shower?  
Did he want hot water or cold?  
He took another swig and plonked himself down in the empty tub, facing away from the faucet.  
He’d sat with Kira like this under an hour ago. Even that felt like an eon.  
  
Absently, his hand reached for the drain plug, he plugged it. The other left the flask on the side of the tub and reached groped the wall behind him blindly till fingers found the faucet. He did not bother setting any precise temperature and just accepted whatever the last setting had been.  
Tepid water. His least favourite – Tariq had always been fond of the extremes. He must have been in a rush the last time he was in here. He could not recall when that was.  
He could not recall much of anything that transpired over the last week or so.  
And for a moment that felt like a blessing.  
  
He embraced the peaceful blankness of his mind.  
And then it very fervidly was not blank anymore.  
Memories collected and pooled like the water around his folded body.  
 _Knife… Gun… Scalpel… Batons… Holding Cell… Poles… Whips… Syringes and Needles… Cards..._  
Something tightened around his chest. Breathing felt difficult, so he drew one deep inhale and held it. His head dropped between his knees. His tense neck craned forward, his shoulders and back stretched, somewhat pleasantly, but everything was drowned in the echoes of his mind.  
And in the echoes of his voice against the bathroom tiles.

It did not strike him that he had listed the things that anchored the flashes till he heard his own voice chanting the words again.   
“Knife… Gun… Scalpel… Batons… Holding Cell… Poles… Whips… Syringes and Needles… Cards...”  
He spoke into the space his legs made, into the water that streamed upwards to cradle him.  
The gentle drizzle of the water felt foreign. Too soft, too gentle, too kind.  
Fingers groped the wall for the faucet again, he craved something stronger and harder.  
The water struck his back with a pressure that left a haze of mist around him, as fine flecks splashed off him.  
  
He hissed softly and let his forehead rest against the ceramic border of the tub.  
“Knife… Gun… Scalpel… Batons… Holding Cell… Poles… Whips… Syringes and Needles… Cards...”  
 _Discoveries. Pain. Suffering… and Betrayal.  
I thought Eze was a friend.  
_What the fuck was with Eze’s cruelty against Kira? He knew that she was a friend… of Tariq’s. Couldn’t he cut her some slack?  
Tariq should have known better. He _did_ know better; it was just that Ezekiel crossed some lines that he had not before, and his victim was someone Tariq was attached to.  
Hate won over friendship—If one could even call it that.  
  
Tariq was vaguely aware of the history that Eze shared with Jared. On more than one occasion they had fantasized about all the moves they would use on Jared if they got a chance to fight him fair and square.  
 _We both had our chance and we squandered it with cowardice.  
_ They had all broken so many rules and he now wondered if Ezekiel had any rules.  
 _And_ Kira _wanted to die?  
_ He hated himself, in that moment. But he clung onto life even more dearly. He had amends to make. Amends that would take time.  
Something shook inside him. In fact, something shook him.  
The water hid his tears.  
It got even harder to breathe between the grizzling.  
Tariq sloshed in the tub as he swivelled and faced the wall behind him. His eyes fell upon the forgotten flask of rum.  
He guzzled it and then turned the dial of the temperature setter till he was lost in the thick cloud steam.

The water sizzled against his flesh, his back stung and it made the whipping scars scream.  
The pain felt familiar, it felt comfortable. It felt like all he deserved.  
He felt betrayed by Akira too. She had made her mother a promise. They had made promises to each other and more importantly to themselves.  
She should not have allowed herself to give up like that. She mattered, no more and no less than he did, or Nova… Or Jared.  
Sure, she went through shit.  
 _She went through a lot of shit._ He shuddered again. He did nothing to protect her, friends were supposed to have each other’s back. They had failed _her_ , more than anything.  
Ezekiel had picked at her; he had picked her apart. And they could just watch.  
Kira survived.  
 _No thanks to me. At least Jared tried. What did I do? Nothing._

She was alive; but would she _live_ again?  
Tariq felt his stomach knot.  
 _I never quite stood up for Nova either_.  
It was an impossible predicament, but he could have done _something._ Especially after all the times she had gone out of her way to make him comfortable when he returned from a mission, a mess.   
A part of him always _knew_ and he conveniently did not ask too many questions.   
He felt nauseated. _  
And Kira wanted to die?  
What were her options?_  
 _What were my options?_

His threw away the empty flask, glass shattered.  
He punched a tile… It shattered too, but the pieces remain wedged against each other and stayed slotted in the wall.  
 _Maybe we can hold each other up like this, within the walls of this system.  
_ He could not really pull the faith to believe the bleak positive suggestion.  
 _  
_“Get a grip. Get a grip. You’re a soldier damn it.”  
Blood.  
It stained the wall and quickly dissolved in the moisture, slipping down the tiles, the tub and disappearing into pool of water.  
He had seen so much of it.  
Friends and enemies alike.  
“Knife… Gun… Scalpel… Batons… Holding Cell… Poles… Whips… Syringes and Needles… Cards...  
GET. A. GRIP.”  
He punctuated the words with a few more punches, this time with the side of his fist, his little finger felt broken, but the tiles remained intact.  
If he fought the flashing moments with enough spirit, they would lose their hold on him eventually…  
… Right?


	2. Ezekiel - Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is to establish how Ezekiel got his hands on Zizi (and Genzo)   
> It also introduces the concept of - The Bloody Blitz.   
> It precedes the 'Lost and Found' arc.   
> [CW: Refers to human trading, human trafficking, fighting pits etc.]

He had been kind to her.  
It had taken effort. But he really wanted to give her a chance to see him for more than his usual cravings. He wished she had been more than a conquest. Alas, she was detached and distant, and Eze’s patience was wearing thin. He got her the best things, bestowed upon her the most ornate compliments, and all she had to offer was resignation and haphazard facts about her research.  
She talked about her work a lot.  
It was amusing at first, but got dull quickly and Eze’s interest waned.  
Then she said something in bed one night.  
“... I suppose it is actually nice that we’re not at war. And I hope we won’t be, but then... Alcyone said, if we were-”  
Nova was the sort to truly hope it would be an _if_ and not _when_.  
“-I'd have had no way to perfect the serum…”  
 _Alcyone thought something Nova was doing was worthy enough to warrant a conversation?  
_  
That piqued his interest again. He coaxed details out of her. How naively she shared the information. Almost brightly. Ezekiel was potentially sitting on a goldmine. How could he not cash in?   
So, he took matters into his own hands. And made some arrangements.  
  
-  
Ezekiel ambled in his study, on an end-to-end encrypted call with a Contact. The unknown, the unnamed, mysterious people that made things happen, for the right price.  
“Yes, but I need in, I want my own Fighter… Fighters preferably…”  
Ezekiel leaned against his study and tossed an eclectic paperweight in his hand absently.  
“Do you just want a person, or do you want to participate and win?”  
The Contacts knew how to read their customers too and they had their own way of collecting intelligence. It was easy to try lure Ezekiel. He did have a penchant for _winning._  
“Good doesn’t come cheap.”  
The mechanical genderless and toneless voice on the other end stated.  
  
Too bad Ezekiel could not really shuffle the cash to get the kind of funds he would need for a real champion in the Bloody Blitz.  
“You know I have to work within the budget that can be overlooked and won’t prompt an inquiry.”  
Ezekiel gripped the ornate paper weight tightly, his knuckles whitening as he reigned in his frustration. He did not like feeling like a dog on Q.B.’s leash. And somehow, despite all the privileges he had garnered, it never felt like enough. He never felt truly liberated.  
“People always break in the Bloody Blitz… Just pick up the pieces if you need someone to fix Ezekiel. Maybe you will get lucky and get a good, cheap Fighter that way. There are some good bouts scheduled for the next Blitz, say the word and I’ll get you in, you know they’re always happy to have you.”  
Eze disconnected on that pleasant note. The reminder that the organizers of the Bloody Blitz eagerly maintained the mutually beneficial relationship with him, was soothing.  
Out of his fondness for the expedient system, Eze did play his part and helped them keep things off Q.B.’s radar.   
_They owe me, I am sure I’ll get what I want._  
-  
  
Today, it was time for him to collect. He looked at his watch to confirm that it was.  
The blonde hated having to do his own work, but this deal called for special discretion and did promise entertainment. He did not use his Q.B. sanctioned hover car for this. He had to settle for an archaic, rented van. Today, he had to drive it himself too.  
 _All this better be worth the trouble._  
He parked the van and checked the shock-implements lay on the black faux leather of the passenger seat. The little inconveniences had already taken their toll on the blonde. He _really_ did not like driving himself.  
  
This was not the first time he had accepted an invite to the Bloody Blitz, and it would not be the last.  
The conceivable venues for the main event were changed too often. Enough fake information floated, to make it impossible for anyone not invited and vetted to be able to pin down a location.  
The structures erected for the event were easy to dismantle without trace. It only happened bi-yearly. And their promise of security, so far, had been delivered flawlessly. Ezekiel being a part of that layer of sanctuary for the people involved… Earned him many privileges. _  
_  
-  
Ezekiel picked up a flute of a sparkling beverage off a tray, absently. Those in the VIP lounge were afforded certain palatable luxuries. He stood in the enclosed balcony, watching the skirmishes – to death or knock out – rage on, in the pit below. The current battle was a classic speed versus strength showdown.  
  
He overheard a snippet of a soft conversation between a man and a woman seated in armchairs in front of him. He began following it out of boredom.  
“I hope Lieder wins…”  
“Lieder is the strength guy? You don’t own him, do you?” the woman sounded aghast, because she had deemed him to be the weaker candidate. It was uncommon for the VIPs to memorise the names of the Fighters, unless they owned them.  
“No no, I’m just friends with his Trainer.” The man replied, slightly offended. He pointed at the guy who stood by the arena below.  
Ezekiel followed his finger and noticed the man in the black overalls; the word TRAINER visibly plastered on the back in bold white letters.  
  
The Trainer was anxiously muttering something into the ear of the man in the sweat and blood-stained orange bodysuit inside the pit – Leider.  
Leider leaned against the chain-link fence that sealed an area that was the size of four boxing rings. He was exhausted and tried to focus on what his trainer was saying, over the din of the crowd. His eyes remained trained onto the other guy in orange, his speedy opponent, being similarly attended to by his trainer.  
“I don’t see it happening.” The woman countered hotly.  
“Leider has more bets on him, higher values too.”  
Ezekiel scanned the riffraff below him, the kinds that had won auctioned tickets and lotteries just to witness this charade. The kind who irresponsibly gambled on the outcomes of the brawls and challenges. Being unable to pay a debt is sometimes what forced people to surrender their lives as Fighters or Units.   
  
The time-out period was extended. There was a cry about a foul.  
The people who sat in chairs on bleachers placed on either side of the arena wore red—The Units. Their spokespeople were shouting.  
“NO! We agreed on the concentration and the volume beforehand!” the stout woman in red, sprung off her seat and was making a beeline towards the other side.  
“But the dose should be _duration_ based, not quantity based, how is our Fighter supposed to outlast yours, if yours works for-”  
A lankier woman responded, rankled. She too slid out of her chair; her motions were meeker as she slunk to meet the other woman halfway.  
Upon being interrupted, her smaller posse strode to her side for support.  
“-That sounds like something that should have been discussed _before._ ”  
  
Eze could not hear the words anymore, but saw the mouths move as the women closed in on each other. Arguments that were deemed truly dull affairs were muted within the lounge. He could not hear the jeer of the crowd either but did feel the floor tremble under him as the people below stamped their feet in unison.  
The pleasing instrumental piece lilted in the balcony instead was interrupted by soft discontent mutters and sighs, the VIPs were more reserved in displaying their displeasure.  
“That dose-administration issue again!” The woman exclaimed. The man showed no interest in the specifics of the foul.  
He was too busy hungrily staring at the teams that had followed their leaders and were dangerously close to duking it out _outside_ the pit. Ezekiel too, watched them with mild intrigue. The team on the side of speed was bigger.  
  
The Units were either teams of scientists or solo researchers responsible for inventing the products and prototypes. They did so either voluntarily out of personal academic curiosity, or out of necessity and desperation.  
Men in navy blue uniforms intervened and the crowd’s reaction was palpable again as the Units were ordered to their knees and then asked to retreat.  
The man in front of Ezekiel slapped his knee and laughed, earning some derisive looks from the other VIPs and outright disgust from the woman beside him.  
“You’re embarrassing yourself, Julien.”  
“What…? Give me a break, I love it when the Handlers get to take charge. Too bad none of them defied the Handlers. They should be doing more with the Units, honestly. Fuckers need to work faster.”  
  
She cleared her throat and prattled on as the situation was managed and the referee made their final call.  
“I want Leider to lose because my sister has a twenty-three percent stake in the development of that enhancement. She narrowly misses the highest shares though. So, her proposal about making the drug short-acting but more efficient is not being accepted.”  
“Get her to convince the other stakeholders.” The man snorted, like it was the most obvious thing ever.  
“I suppose if she manages and it passes, I’ll have to agree, the Handlers better make the Units buck up.” Her eyes glinted with their own hungry streak.  
Funding the Units granted the VIPs shareholder stakes on cutting-edge technology. Greater the ownership, the more autonomy one could have on how they wanted the research to proceed. The Handlers promised to do their best to _make it happen._  
It prompted a smirk from Ezekiel.  
 _Lucky for me, I have my own personal ‘Unit’ in Nova.  
_  
“We’ll see… I’m really looking forward to the next bout…” the man said, before he picked up an appetizer from the tray and slid the bite off the toothpick with his teeth cleanly.  
“That is bound to get truly bloody.” The woman agreed, having already forgotten her brief revulsion for the man.  
Ezekiel looked up at the announcement screen.  
 _Next up: ‘Genzo vs Zizi – Prosthetic Prototypes.’_  
-  
  
The fight truly was a spectacle, the woman, won against that Genzo guy, by the skin of her teeth.  
  
“Where are they going to take the Fighters?”  
Ezekiel asked the man in the purple uniform, standing by the gate to the VIP lounge.  
The guard was chewing a gum noisily and eyed the blonde, he wearily assessed the situation.   
“I doubt they’ll go to the wards; they’ll be in body bags soon.”  
“Yes, but where are they taking them _now?_ ”  
“Immediately? Backstage and then probably to the greenrooms for quick assessment, if they survive all that…”  
“Perfect.”  
The guard narrowed his eyes as Ezekiel nodded. Something about his manner must have made his intentions obvious.  
“Sir… Guests are not allowed backstage, so you can’t go there…”  
Ezekiel just patted the man’s shoulder reassuringly, but in an off-handed manner as he crossed him.  
 _Someone else’s problem, I guess…_ The guard thought.  
  
Ezekiel cut through any resistance like butter and was soon witnessing the deranged babble of Zizi’s trainer. The man stood between two gurneys, he loomed over his Fighter and beseeched the medics to reconsider.  
“Come on! There must be _something_. Something you can do. She is good, she brings in good cash, I will give you a cut…”  
“It is over… Let it go, they will give you another Fighter soon. You know better than to get attached Jerry.”  
The Biohacker was done with this conversation and Jeremy wasn’t. He clearly had made exactly the mistake the medic accused him off. To Eze, he looked prohibitively attached to Zizi. This felt very exploitable.  
“I have a way to save her…”   
There was a confident cadence to Eze’s offer as he strolled up to the two medics and the trainer.  
  
“You do? What do you want for it?”  
There was an accent of suspicion in Jeremy’s question. No one did anything for free.  
Ezekiel clicked his tongue and addressed the BioHackers instead.  
“Where is the guy’s trainer?”   
“They rarely come to check on Fighters who lost and are presumed dea-”  
“What do you want for her?!”  
Jeremy spoke over the medic with an urgency.  
“Her… and him. I’ll save them, but they’re mine.”  
Ezekiel answered simply.  
Jeremy did not have the chance or the time to hesitate or protest. The medics were thrilled to hand Genzo and Zizi over, they even rolled them into the black van for him.  
-  
  
Eze went to fetch the shock collars and cuffs. A pair for the ankles, a pair for the wrists and one for the neck. They were snapped onto his new subjects with a vapid efficiency. Ezekiel did not take risks. 

Transaction done.  
It was oddly relieving to drive away from the Bloody Blitz, _gifts_ in hand.  
Tonight, the two Fighters would meet a new devil—or fallen angel rather—and it wasn’t him.  
“It’d be fucking hilarious if I was rescuing you right?”  
He was not sure if they were conscious enough to hear his dark joke, but he was certain that they were in no state to respond.  
  
He drove past the East-facing cells by the arena and then the sign that read Quantum Brigade Living Quarters. The car slowed down, but he didn’t take that first turn. He took the dingier off road that followed.  
“But, Zizi and Genzo… I am the law. And you two are mine.”  
He took the back route to the officer’s apartment and parked the car by some trees off the road. Someone would come collect the car later. It had served its purpose and had now been appropriately discarded.  
He ambled to the secret exit to the officer’s houses, to make his entry.  
More secret pathways. And the grand house… Perks of being second-in-command.  
“SuperNova! I’m home sweetheart. And I brought you something special, but I’ll need you to help me bring them inside.”


	3. Jared - No, Thank you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'She did not know that he had been brought to his knees for that shot… and worse.'  
> \- Empty by Ritonix (Chapter 7) [Lost and Found]
> 
> This chapter gives us a peek into what Zizi _didn't_ know and how Jared did pay for the shot he took.  
> This takes place in the past, while Jared is still a SpecSyn agent working undercover for The Supremacy. 
> 
> [CW: NSFW, Mature, Non-con (some explicit and some implied), read at your own discretion]

That same black-suit and black-tie. Occupying the same barstool in the same corner. Drinking that same fucking cranberry juice.  
Daya watched him from the corner of her eye, pulling the hair tie off her light brown hair.  
“Why does he keep coming back _here_? Are there no other fucking bars, Ko?”  
Kojo tossed the rug over his shoulder and turned away from the patrons. Leaning against the bar, he faced his sister. Through grit teeth, he replied.  
“What are we? We are _nothing_ Daya. We are all nothing to him. Just insects on the windscreen of his fancy Supremacy sanctioned car. Bet he swaggers in here to remind us of that.”  
His hiss was disgruntled. Folding his hands stubbornly over his broad chest, Kojo reigned himself with deep breaths. He was convinced he had _that_ man all figured out.  
  
“You don’t think he _knows_ do you? You don’t think he saw us in the crowd, do you?”  
Daya sounded so pained and horrified as she ducked under the bar, squatting on her haunches by her brother’s side and rearranging the bottles in the shelves, with a certain compulsion. Her eyes screwed shut, forbidding the fall of tears.   
“I don’t know… Probably?”  
Kojo was uncertain. He tried to find an answer to his sisters’ question in the face of their enemy. He looked over his shoulders at the man in the black suit again. The man who shot their younger sister and stole her future. Watched the way he stared at the drink they served him, so shrewd and so cold. He did not even bother to make eye-contact with anyone. Not him, not Daya, not even any of the other patrons.  
  
Daya elbowed her brother’s leg with an urgency as a new belief tightened its grip on her. Her voice cracked with the pain of this truth and the slice of helplessness it brought along with it.  
“I bet he _does_. I bet he comes here specifically to mock _us_ , because what can we _do_ right?”  
Kojo looked down at the woman he looked up to, absently. He had a whole different gripe with the situation.  
“Fucking hell, I told Zi, I _told_ her not to risk it. I told her a live performance was a bad idea!”  
Kojo winced when Daya backhanded her brother’s leg with a harsh swiftness, she reprimanded him,  
“Don’t you _dare_ blame Zi. She never hurt a damn fly, Ko. She is good and was doing the right thing. And we should have been up there with her.”  
They spoke in careful undertones. The man in the black suit was the only one sitting at the bar and he was far enough to ensure privacy.   
Shame and guilt made effective gags. Ko was resolutely quiet. He stooped a little to rub his leg and then straightened again, rubbing the back of his neck.  
“You’re right… But she lost her hand… and her job and… now she can never come back here…”  
He sounded hopeless and resigned.  
 _What does it matter now?  
_  
His sister was on a very different page.  
“And she is _still_ doing the right thing. Ritonix is _still_ alive and well. If he did not stop her, why should we let him stop us?”  
It just took one shared look between the siblings for something to change. The darkened resolve that streaked Daya’s face was reflected in her brother’s green eyes.  
Kojo grunted, “Why should we let him do anything, really _?_ ”  
He cracked his knuckles and made the smallest motion towards _his_ spot.  
The man in the black suit had claimed that barstool in the corner. No one else sat in there anymore, except him, and this only disgusted Ko some more.  
Daya’s hand closed around her brother’s shoulder, her long nails dug into his skin with an insistence.   
“No. Not like this, Ko. Let him dare to come back to the bar again. We’ll be prepared then.”  
  
-  
Daya’s nails dug into softer, paler flesh now. She had painted them teal, in consistency with the theme of the artist they were now representing – The brand her sister had created and sacrificed so much for.  
She crouched by the man in the black suit, his slackened jaw in the grip of her hands.  
Now that he was at their mercy, she could objectively discern that he had a handsome face. It helped that his calculating steel-eyes were still closed, and he was not looking through her with that smug aloofness. He looked so relaxed and peaceful, that it was almost endearing.  
She slapped his cheek. Once. Twice. Thrice… in quick insistent motions.  
  
Kojo was not a violent man, but he was also not a patient man. He pulled away from the pool-table he had been leaning on.  
Soon, the black-tie was wound around his arm, its knot was in his fist as he lifted the drugged man off the floor.  
The man in the black suit, on his knees.  
Ko’s backhanded strike echoed sharply, it drew a groan and the flutter of eyelids.  
Daya winced and warned,  
“Careful with the face! We need him recognizable.”  
His fingers slipped to the body of the tie. He held it like a leash. It was the only thing that kept the man from crashing back onto the floor. Ko retaliated with his explanation,  
“They’ll all be here soon. We need him conscious…”  
“I used just enough Ke-Ro powder to drop him and keep him compliant for the rest of it. He should come around soon. But he will not be able to do much for a while.”  
A heavy thud and another groan followed, as Kojo let go and let the man fall onto the floor again in a sad pile of flesh and bones.  
“Will he remember everything?”  
Kojo’s question originated from a place of doubt, some fear and concern for their well-being.   
“He will know, feel, and yes, remember everything. That is the idea.”  
Daya’s answer was assured and confident. She quelled her brother’s anxiety with her notes of anticipation.  
-  
  
About half a dozen vacant, genderless pixelated faces stood in a semi-circle and stared down at the man in the black suit.  
The small, intricate holes that bore into the mask were carefully arranged and a soft, tasteful neon hint enhanced the art in the dimly lit room. The masks were genderless and expressionless, but they were a face of their own, all of them were framed by cascading waves of teal tresses.  
“Introduce yourself.”  
The man who sat hoisted against the leg of a pool table heard a woman make a demand, the voice vaguely familiar, he could not and did not try to make out who spoke to him. He did choose silence.  
  
The basement of the bar was abuzz with dissatisfied mutters.  
A mask walked up to the man on the floor and pulled his coat off him.  
He was not a black suit anymore, he was a white shirt, black pants and black tie now.  
And boxers. And shoes and socks, of course.  
He lost the footwear and socks next.   
Steel-grey eyes were trained onto the toes and feet that were exposed. They looked paler than one would imagine.  
The tie should have followed, but he lost the shirt next. It was pulled off the leaden arms, carefully almost delicately. The large hands carefully folded the garment and set it on the pool-table, on top of the coat that lay there sprawled.   
Someone snorted derisively. The image of a shirtless man in a tie was amusing somehow.  
“Introduce yourself.”  
Someone reached for the buckle of the man’s belt.  
“Jared Knight.”

The man in the pants and tie now had a name.   
-  
  
For a moment, Jared was stupid enough to think he would be spared if he answered. No one had set the rules for this cruel game of striptease. And the rules he had naively assumed, were incorrect.   
His belt slithered out of the loops anyway and it didn’t join the rest of Jared’s belongings, it remained in the hands of the broad backed person who had tugged it off.   
“Why did you shoot Ritonix?”  
The masked man with the belt asked, gruffly. His foot shoved against Jared’s shoulder and he could do little to resist the force. Pitifully, he toppled to the floor on his side. He internally begged his body to fight… but the drugs won out. The thick fingers loosened Jared’s pants unceremoniously.   
“I was ordered to!”  
There was a desperation in the answer that he could erase, because neither his tone, nor his words change anything. The pants were pulled off him and joined the rest of his clothes.  
“By whom?”  
  
Now there was molten anger in his steel-grey eyes. His tongue was the only muscle that seemed to be responding, so for once, his wounded pride chose words.  
“Why? So, you can get them here too?”  
He should have known better than to make matters worse by arguing.   
A belt tore through the air, blindingly fast.  
The crimson welt that it left against his back formed much slower.  
Jared’s face reddened with the effort of choking back the cry. He felt his shoulders fold towards the front and he involuntarily tried pulling his knees up to his chest. In retrospect, he was glad it didn’t work, lying there curled like a fucking foetus would just add insult to injury.  
_No questions. No answers.  
_It was time to choose silence again.  
Fingers slid into the waistband of his boxers.  
It was one of those rare moments, that Jared broke a promise he made to himself, so instantly.  
“No. Don’t.”  
  
-  
“You’ve taken things from one of ours. We will take things from you.”  
The masked folks had been waiting for a protest. Waiting for the cue, so they could respond with their practiced chorus. So, they could tell the man why he was where he was.  
And they did.  
The man in _just_ the tie—Jared, playing a new game that he would not win.  
“Who ordered you to take the shot?”  
A soft beep brought to life the Ritonix discography.  
Zizi’s rap and verses filled the enduring silence.  
They provided the beats to which the man-in-the-tie was belted indiscriminately. The masked people took turns wielding it. Behind their masks, they were dissatisfied - this was not enough.  
The rhythmic blows of the belt on skin ceased, the protesting shouts that eventually followed them stopped too, replaced by breathless sputtering.  
The songs continued to play but their volume was lowered.  
“If we all started taking parts of you, there would not be much of you left, would there?”  
Another question by someone in a mask... This one did not need an answer.   
A masked man tried in vain to get the-man-in-the-tie to stand and made a demand that could not be met.  
“Get up.”  
-  
_I… fucking cannot._  
Jared could barely grit his teeth for long enough.  
There was some non-verbal understanding between the crew. A few hands gripped Jared’s limbs and pulled him to his feet. Something changed when enough hands had touched him.   
Some invisible wall broke, for Jared and for the masked crew. He could sense a perilous familiarity and comfort build within the masked crew. In the way they handled him, which got more brazen and callous.  
He flopped forward and was pushed backwards against the pool table a few times. Till one of them, pinned his hips to the edge of the pool table with her knee and flicked open a pocket-knife.   
  
“You think they’ll find you in time?”  
The masked head cocked with the question. The knife pointed at the camera Jared had not noticed until then.  
The tip of the weapon sat in the hollow below Jared’s neck and began its achingly slow journey downwards, it did not draw blood as it went past his chest bone, past his navel and lower still…  
He noticed the emerald flash behind the tiny holes of the mask. He could barely make out the eyes.  
“Please... Don’t…”  
He couldn’t help the whispered plea that crawled out of his mouth.  
_What kind of deranged fans are these? I spared her life for fucks sake!  
_  
-  
“You’ve taken things from one of ours. We will take things from you.”  
The chorus responded to every protest. This time, Daya held up her hand to silence the others.  
_Now he begs. Zizi did not get that chance._  
She licked her lips behind the safety and anonymity of the mask, but she wanted him to know. She wanted him to know why she was doing this. That he does not get to take things from people and walk away unscathed.  
So boldly, her fingers held the knife she could not bring herself to use.  
_But he has to pay._  
  
The moment she stepped away from him he crumpled to the floor.  
Her fingers knotted into his hair just in time, to catch him kneeling. Her teal nails found his face again, she let them dig into his cheeks as she forced him to look into her eyes. Into the emerald she knew he had noticed.  
The Supremacy dog could not look through her anymore. She was not going to be just another face in the crowd for him to shepherd with the threat of violence.  
She looked at him with a greed. She wanted something. Something to take from him.  
She searched, for it in his resigned face.  
“Only your tongue works. Either it gives me a name… or something else.”  
Kojo tensed at his sister’s implication as did the others, this had taken a turn for the unexpected. But any interruptions meant risking exposure, this was being live streamed after all on an encrypted platform, the codes for which had been anonymously sent to the Enforcement branch of The Supremacy.  
-  
  
Jared vaguely recognized the fabric that fell as panties, his eyes snapped anxiously to the hitched skirt and then followed the sleek sandal that shot out past his face. The foot rested on something behind him, presumably the edge of the pool-table.  
She closed in on him.  
And he closed his eyes.  
He did not want the image of her advance stuck in his mind. It was bad enough that she would soon be against him.  
  
“You Supremacy scum are so good at taking things… Today you will learn to give…”  
Her fingers and nails continued to dig till she successfully pried open his mouth. With the other hand in his hair, she steered his head.  
His tongue was certainly not interested in being satisfactory. Not with the answers and not in offering her whatever pleasure she was hoping to get out of this, his mouth remained slack against her. His nose was pressed against shaved skin, that felt soft one way and abrasive the other.  
_  
Fucking hell, no way she is getting to live out some twisted fantasy at my expense._  
Just as he thought, that. She leaned closer to share a whisper, just for his ears.  
“Do you ever stop to think before you shoot?”  
Her words sent a chill down his spine. He did. Every shot he took remained etched in his mind. He hated it, despite knowing that he was serving a bigger purpose. He was trained enough to know that collateral damage was inevitable. He was only pulling the trigger to keep his cover; they were on the same damn side. These masked men and him… But they would never know that. He could never tell them.  
  
A guilt stirred in Jared. Without him realising, his tongue flicked against her, almost like an apology.  
_What the fuck? No.  
_He reeled it back and realised that she had not even noticed. She rolled against him with a frustration that felt less like desire and more like violent vengeance.  
“Before taking someone’s arm. Leg? Son? Sister?! That was my sister’s hand you took, you filth.”  
She hissed, the camera probably did not catch her words, the other didn’t either. But he did.  
When a bullet finds its mark, the intentions behind the shot hardly matter, the greater good does not matter either…  
  
He did not mean to hurt her.  
But her words forced him to grit his teeth and the woman’s flesh was in the way.  
That’s when everything got so much worse.  
He had not broken skin, he had not tasted blood.  
He would soon and it would be his own.  
  
-  
Daya pulled away with an urgency, regretting everything about the choices she had just made.  
_How did I even let this creep near me?_  
A smaller voice in the back of her mind chastised her for taking such a stupid risk, she _had_ just threatened to take a piece of him and then offered herself to him on a platter.  
“You bit me?! You rotten fucki-”  
Everything happened so fast after that.  
“You dare hurt one of us again?!”  
Kojo roared, it almost scared Daya as he flew off the handle.  
_You already hurt Zizi, you will not hurt Daya! You’re going to pay!  
_Kojo could not believe the First, he threw a mean hook in exasperation. He held onto the tie like a leash again and now punched him square in the face.  
The-man-in-the-tie was lifted off the floor and thrown face first against the pool table behind them.  
-  
  
Jared tasted blood, saw stars and felt a myriad of pain. A raw stinging back, the sharpness of the migraine and dull throbbing ache of a broken nose. But they were not done.  
The drugs along with the heavy blows to his face, left him feeling dizzy. Breathing was difficult.  
His torso was flattened against the pool-table, the scratchy green surface of the table chafed against his unharmed cheek.   
A vicelike grip held him down by the nape of his neck. He still did not have the strength to resist.  
Kojo reached over him to pick up a cue stick.  
He heard the soft click of the tip against the floor as he felt Kojo shuffle to the side and face his crew.  
The clicking grew incessant and deliberate.  
Ritonix’s discography was turned up again. Kojo peered into the camera as he spoke over it, loudly and clearly.  
“You don’t deserve anything. We will take what we want, and you will have no choice but to give it to us, you understand?”  
Jared did not understand.  
Then he did.  
In a way that he could not forget.  
To the beat of Ritonix’s songs.  
The verses and the moment were branded in his mind, just as they had wanted.  
They kept their word. Each of them took turns, without ever giving him anything, nothing he could possibly want.  
  
-  
Jared remembered the needle prick because it felt like such a kindness, it followed some sort of an incessant beeping. He readily gave in to the sweet embrace of unconsciousness.  
He woke up in a hospital bed. He could move again, but his limbs still felt heavy.  
They had put his clothes back on him and he did not know why they bothered. The whole suit... tie and all. Dishevelled, misaligned and oddly foreign. It was _his_ suit, but it did not fit somehow. The act of having it stripped off him and then replaced as if nothing happened… was unsettling.  
Because something did happen. As much as he wanted no one else to know.  
  
A friendly face in a white coat emerged in front of him, one that _did_ want to know.   
“Ah! Mr. Knight… I would like to examine you if that is okay.”  
Jared didn’t say anything.  
“Sir, I need you to say it is okay.”  
_But, it's not._  
“It’s okay.”  
Jared repeated mechanically.  
The man reached for Jared’s coat and asked another question.  
“Can you tell me what you remember?”  
“I don’t remember anything.”  
His reply sounded automated.  
“What is the last thing you remember? You must remember _some-_ ”  
A voice spoke from behind the partition.  
“Leave. He said he doesn’t remember.”  
_Nikolai. Of course.  
_The man in the coat left in a hurry muttering, “Of course, of course.”  
  
Jared and Nikolai had argued several times about the perils for Combative Field Enforcers being in areas that are suspected hubs for dissenters.  
_“I’m just scouting.”  
“It’s called off-duty for a reason. You’re going to get into trouble.”  
_Jared could never tell the blonde, that the places he visited, where he quietly sipped on juice in solitude, felt real. That, it is where he would have ended up, if his true loyalties towards SpecSyn had not forced him to work undercover for The Supremacy. If his duty had not forced him to take shots he did not want to take, against people who were on the same side of things, on the _right_ side.   
  
Jared assumed it must be obvious that he did get into trouble. He did not want Nikolai to say, ‘I told you so.’ And today, he did not want to argue. So, he thought it would just be easier if he conceded.  
“I shouldn’t have-”  
Little did he know that Nikolai had been the one to receive the codes to the encrypted video and he knew exactly the kind of _trouble_ Jared faced.  
“No. Stop. Don’t.”  
The blonde man held up his hand, interrupting his subordinate with emphatic words.  
Jared wanted to wince at each one but did not.  
_That is said, I did... Maybe I should have said them more… more often._   
“None of what happened, is your fault, in _any_ manner, Jared.”   
Nikolai meant his words; it took a lot of effort for him to remain reigned.  
Their eyes locked.  
_So, he knows._  
He reached for the friction burn on Jared’s cheek.  
“I’m fine,” Jared stated.  
When he got his hand smacked away, Nikolai did not try again.


End file.
